Thank You Is A Fairly Good Place To Start
by Literary Bitca
Summary: The events following the end of 2x01 A Scandal In Belgravia. Sherlock and Irene retreat to a safe house to lay low, but the close quarters and history between them cause some friction. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Rating is in place because I've got some general plans for later chapters and things will likely spice up to a point where they deserve an "M"._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and associated characters and scenarios are not mine in any way, shape, or form._

**CHAPTER 1**

Sherlock threw open the door to the small space and dragged the woman in by her upper arm, tossing her farther into the room.

"What is this?" She asked, looking around the windowless area, lit by a single bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. There was a tall, narrow table that ran along one wall, and a low wooden chair in the far corner. Not that any of the corners were very far, as she could cross the room in just a few strides. Other than that, the room was bare.

Sherlock had shut the door quickly behind them and thrown the two deadbolts, but not moved into the room.

"Why are we here? Not that I'm complaining that you saved my life tonight, but I _would_ like to know why. And was the manhandling really necessary?" Irene asked, glaring at Sherlock's back as she massaged her upper arm, sure there would be bruised fingerprints from where Sherlock had dragged her from the car, up the stairs, and into the room.

"Shut up," he ordered, his ear pressed to the door.

Irene's breaths came fast and uneven while Sherlock listened for any indication they were followed. After several long minutes, he eased away from the door and turned to the woman.

He was stopped by a harsh slap that snapped his head to one side. As he turned back to look at Irene, he saw a movement from the corner of his eye and caught her hand as she raised it to repeat the slap. She tried to pull her arm back, but his grip tightened on her wrist.

"How silly of me, I expected you to be more grateful," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"You were the one who got me into that mess in the first place!" Irene threw back.

"And now I've gotten you back out. A simple 'thank you' is a fairly good place to start, if you're wondering." Sherlock released Irene's hand and turned away, pacing as far from her as he could get in the small space, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him.

"You asked me to beg in London the night you unlocked my phone. Now you expect me to grovel in appreciation? What's next? Will you ask me for a monetary reward for your troubles? I'm sorry to disappoint, but you've already burned my kingdom to the ground. If you're looking for a big payout you're-"

"I don't want your money."

"Then what _do_ you want, _pray tell_?" Irene asked angrily.

Sherlock crossed his arms slowly and deliberately, keeping his back to the woman. "I want you to behave. Lowering your voice is advisable, and refraining from further acts of violence would be appreciated. Or I'll be forced to restrain you. Or toss you back outside onto the street."

"Careful with your threats of physical domination, Mr. Holmes. Remember, I have brought you to your knees before," Irene spat.

Sherlock spun and approached the woman, his eyes narrowed and his voice a hiss. "I seem to remember the last time _you_ were on your knees it was in front of me while I contemplated leaving you to your death." Sherlock took several short breaths before backing up a step and straightening. "I'm fairly certain mine trumps yours."

"A quiet voice can't be all you want from me right now, Sherlock. What else do you want? Why are you here?" she demanded. When Sherlock didn't answer immediately, the woman sank to the floor in front of him. "Shall I get back down on my knees for you?" she continued, a quiet sort of acid in her voice. "There are several things I can do from this position. Is this what you want?"

Sherlock took another step back and rolled his eyes, looking at a point on the opposite wall above Irene's head, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Did you think it would be _better_, somehow, in this situation, instead of on a random Thursday afternoon in your flat? Has it been worth the wait? What have you been doing to kill time? Have you been practicing some kind of Holmesian tantric meditation over the months since we saw each other? The longer you waited, the better you figured it would be when you finally found me?" Irene leaned forward, placing her hands high on each of his thighs. "Did you think I would be so grateful that I would fall into your arms and we would make love?" she asked with a mocking sneer.

Sherlock's expression remained impassive as he stepped away from Irene, not bothering with so much as a glance down at her. "I thought we'd established love and sentiment are for fools?"

"And you're not a fool?"

"No. I'm a fool for no-one."

"You're a fool for me."

"Sadly, you're mistaken."

"Sadly?" Irene repeated the word pointedly, as if she'd caught something he hadn't meant to give away. She sat back on her heels and turned her head to follow Sherlock's progress across the small room. "Would you be disappointed to learn that I'm not in love with you? That I might be grateful for what you did tonight, but that I _don't_ love you?"

"You're still speaking as if I have plans beyond saving you from your previous precarious situation. That's all I needed to do tonight, as it happens. Mission accomplished." Sherlock made an exaggerated show of dusting off his hands to illustrate his point.

"Save me. Yes, you did save me. And I haven't actually thanked you yet."

"Well, don't say it now. It'll sound terribly forced."

Irene's face was still tense, but her silence conceded Sherlock's point. She swept her feet out from under her with a sigh, and tugged at the pool of black fabric that surrounded her. "Does anyone know we're here?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but gave her a withering look implying that she should assume his vast intelligence had taken the necessary precautions to ensure they would not be traced back to this room.

"Not even John? Your brother?"

Sherlock again refused to dignify her questions with an answer, looking away.

"You came all this way—for me—alone? Where do they think you are? You're not the type to pop off for a spur-of-the-moment country holiday. Where did you tell them you were going?"

Sherlock remained silent and still.

"Do they even know you're gone? You didn't even stop to tell them! You _want_ this trip to be a secret. What is this, a last-minute international booty-call with the condemned? Couldn't find a single woman in all of England who was willing to give you a go, figured I'd be grateful and pliant if you granted me a stay of execution?" Irene leaned back on her hands. "Do you think they've even noticed you're gone?" She tilted her head to one side and gave a snide smirk. "If they have, I'm betting they're enjoying themselves. Some peace. Some quiet. Getting things done, living their lives without the burden of caring for their gangly, socially-inept charity case?"

"Please try to listen more carefully; I've already told you this is not about sex."

"And I don't believe you, Mr. Holmes; you are a _terrible_ liar."

"Alright, look," he pointed a finger in her direction, finally acknowledging her again with his eyes, "I understand you're still upset about what happened between us, and undoubtedly you're somewhat shaken by the events of the evening. Almost being killed seems to have turned your personality somewhat more acerbic than usual." Sherlock moved to the wall and spun, easing down the wall to a sitting position, his long legs arched out in front of him. "I plan to be gone no more than seventy-two hours; easily explained away when the world thinks you eccentric beyond reason. Any longer than that and not only would people get overly suspicious, but I shudder to think of the complete mess London would devolve into without me pulling strings and keeping the British Empire afloat." His rapid fire explanation was accompanied by no sign that he was only half serious.

"I'm constantly surprised that both you and your ego fit into small, enclosed spaces like this." After a pause, Irene pushed herself back against the opposite wall, mirroring Sherlock's position on the floor. "But don't try to tell me someone's waiting; no one's waiting for you. You're not wanted or needed anywhere else right now. The world _does_ go on turning in the absence of one Sherlock Holmes."

"You might want to choose a new topic of conversation." All hints of amusement were gone from Sherlock's voice. "I'm starting to reassess my reasons for this trip, and you don't want me to decide I'm wasting my time on you," he finished, drawing out each of the last three words.

"Wasting your time on me? I think you're _exactly _where you want to be. I may not be as clever as you are, Mr. Holmes, but I'm beginning to figure you out. For all your bravado and logic, there's a flaw in your protestations. You _do_ believe there are people in England who need you, you _do_ believe you're important. That you're _special._ That you _matter_. And yet you're willing to risk your life coming here. To find me. If I didn't know better, I'd think you believe I'm worth risking big things for. Because you _do_ know better. And yet you're right here, with me."

Sherlock didn't meet her eyes, and they lapsed into silence.

XxX

_Thanks for reading! :) More chapters soon._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I didn't realize when I started jotting down phrases and ideas that writing Sherlock would be so VERY tough. Turns out writing a character who is a genius is somewhat difficult. Like brain-ache difficult. Reviews and feedback make my head hurt less, tho, if you want to help. :)_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and associated characters and scenarios are not mine in any way, shape, or form._

**CHAPTER 2**

Sherlock was irritated. This was not how he had imagined the evening would go once he had rescued The Woman. While he had been honest about having no overt sexual ulterior motives for his actions, he hadn't expected her to react so aggressively.

Frankly, he had expected gratitude, and considering The Woman's line of work, yes, he had assumed she would offer sexual favors as part of her thank you. He had done his very best on the journey from London, however, not to dwell on whether he would accept the thanks or not. He didn't think mentally running possible scenarios in this particular instance would be beneficial; more likely he would end up bothered and fidgety on a plane full of strangers, forced to remain seated and to obey the general rules of air travel. Dozens of which he had issue with, and he itched to point out several flaws in the system the moment he stepped onto the plane. But being bodily removed from the aircraft by security personnel before take-off would have thrown his travel timetable into a tailspin, so Sherlock had done his best to behave.

Sherlock's face stung where The Woman had slapped him, but he refused to give her any satisfaction by touching his cheek or otherwise referencing his discomfort.

Sherlock loved a good puzzle, but what he hated to admit—even to himself—was that he _despised_ puzzles or games he couldn't win. There weren't many of them, thankfully, but when he came across one, he generally avoided it. An unwinnable game could derail him for days or even weeks, and he would rather not attempt something at all if the alternative was to attempt it and fail. He was clever enough to be able to recognize most of these puzzles when they came along and make an excuse not to participate. Sports were 'glorified gladiatorial pissing contests that were entirely beneath him'. Most social situations were 'not worth his time and full of insipid people that couldn't keep him entertained'. The few women who had shown interest over the years and weren't immediately scared off by his abrasive personality were easy enough, as well. He could find a reason to summarily ignore each of them. And he had quickly become a master at using his penchant for blistering honesty to drive away anyone who tried to pull him into a social or physical game. No one tried for very long.

Well, John had managed to stick around, but that wasn't for Sherlock's lack of trying, and besides, he'd proven useful on too many occasions, so Sherlock had dialed down his attempts at distancing himself. Sherlock considered John the exception that proves the rule.

…an expression he hated, actually, since it made no logical sense.

He hadn't meant to completely avoid sex. Sex didn't upset or scare him, but he'd made a habit of avoiding all the people who could provide him with a partner, so the subject had never been broached. For a brief moment, months ago, sitting by the fire in his living room, he had let himself consider The Woman. She didn't ask him to play the usual pointless social games, and she didn't cloak her intentions in much. She didn't cloak herself in much, either, and while it had cracked his usual composure at the time, her nakedness when they first met had earned her quite a bit of respect from him. And admiration. Anatomically speaking, he couldn't find fault with her.

Sherlock's stream of consciousness paused. He supposed he shouldn't characterize a woman's attractiveness as anatomically adequate. That didn't seem like it would be a normal reaction.

He wasn't normal, though, or average, and he didn't worry too much when he stumbled on a reaction that didn't fit The Mold. A man with his IQ couldn't be expected to conform to the typical reaction paradigm.

But he thought of her.

Often.

Since he saw her last in London, her face—and body—had haunted his dreams, and for the first time Sherlock began to have trouble sleeping not because of a puzzle or unsolved riddle occupying his brain, but because of a want, a need, and it lived somewhere else entirely. His dreams of her were like a consistent drumming inside his head, and even after he woke the ringing in his ears would continue into the day. He would dive into a new case to solve, but no matter how deep the water of the problem ran, it couldn't drown out the constant rumble. The echo of the drums would start right back up as soon as his head hit the pillow. When he had finally laid eyes on her again tonight, lit up by stark headlights, kneeling in the dirt, the beat filled his head, and as he moved toward her his body had howled at him to forgive her previous transgressions entirely.

His mind, however, continued to protest.

She had used him, she had tricked him, and she had belittled and embarrassed him. The fact that it had all been done with Mycroft as a witness had made the sting almost unbearable. There were few times in Sherlock's life when he had felt as inferior as she and his brother had caused him to feel that night. She had brushed him aside without a backward glance on the plane, and when she proceeded to spell out how she had managed to bring the British government to its knees—like an over-confident Bond villain, and with much the same result—she and Mycroft had sat him across the room, mostly ignoring him while they pounded out the details. Her gloating showed her hand, and his chest had pulsed with a pressure he couldn't decide was pleasure or pain when he realized he could force her off the victory perch and regain some measure of control over the situation.

She had cried. She had begged.

And he had left the room triumphant.

Triumphant, yes, but hollow. Like the beating drums. No matter how much noise they made, they were still hollow. Damage had been done to both parties, bridges had been burned, and he left with a curt, flippant apology about dinner, assuming he could be rid of her and the agony of doubt she had caused him.

He'd been wrong.

XxX

_Feedback greatly appreciated! Thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This is the first story I've written this way. Usually I'm very linear, starting with the first chapter and working my way through systematically. This time I wrote paragraphs of stream of consciousness and short pieces of banter and dialogue, and now I'm piecing them together. It's a very bizarre way to do it, and I'm not sure I'll ever do it again, but it's exciting when you're able to put separately written chunks together like puzzle pieces and create a full conversation. It's like I'm writing the story out of order. I'm beginning to think my laptop is somehow related to the TARDIS... _

_My point being this: I've done my very best to proof-read and edit these chapters properly, but if you notice something doesn't flow right, let me know. Continuity is a bitch when writing this way._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and associated characters and scenarios are not mine in any way, shape, or form._

**CHAPTER 3**

After almost an hour of sitting cloaked in the quiet of the room, Sherlock's voice startled Irene. "I'm not gangly," he said, referencing her earlier insult.

The woman pursed her lips, somewhat grateful for the break in the silence. "Alright. If you're not gangly," she said slowly, "then what are you?"

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Tall."

"Scrawny," Irene countered.

"Thin."

"_Gangly_."

"Lanky."

"Lanky," she repeated, mulling over the word. "Okay. You're lanky," she said, granting him a ghost of a smile.

His lips twitched in amusement, but when he met her eyes, a shadow passed over his face and he looked away again, his brow furrowed.

Another moment of silence, and Irene asked, "Have you ever been in love?" She leaned forward with curiosity. "Has Sherlock Holmes ever been in love?"

"Have you?"

"Yes. And before you ask, the scars of my past attempts at love can't be seen, but they're there." Sherlock made a move to ask another question, but Irene cut him off by continuing, "And no, those stories will not be shared tonight."

"I thought you were in the business of love?"

"That's a very naive characterization of what I do, Mr. Holmes."

"I don't mean love on your end. Your goal is to make your clients love you, or at least love what you do to them. If you've had such poor personal experiences, how do you manage to convince clients to enjoy themselves?"

"I have my ways."

"And are you quite sure they _do_ enjoy themselves?"

"Oh, _darling_," Irene said with a hint of condescension, "I _know_ they enjoy themselves. I'm very good at what I do, and I suppose, yes, you could say I 'love' each one of my clients. In a way." She leaned forward and braced her elbows on her knees. "But what I do with them is generally not about love. It's about desire. About wanting. About their _needs_. I'm not an angel sent to bring them happiness or redemption. I'm more often the devil, granting them their darkest wishes. I can make them weep, but their tears and cries are always a plea for more, and when they leave, all they want is to be back in my arms, back in my bed."

Sherlock swallowed heavily but remained still as a stone statue otherwise. Irene wasn't fooled. She slowly unwound the black fabric from her body and tossed it aside, revealing basic underwear and a thin men's sleeveless undershirt. Sherlock watched her progress, but didn't say anything. Irene smiled seductively.

"It doesn't even matter what I wear. It's not about the outside trappings, you see. It's about confidence, and sexuality, and domination. My clients would willingly murder their mothers for the opportunity to ride to hell between these thighs." To illustrate her point, Irene spread her legs, her knees bent, her hands flat on the floor beside her hips. "Are you aroused by my confessions, Sherlock?"

He didn't respond.

"You never answered my question," she continued. "I asked you if you'd ever been in love, and all you did was deflect the question onto me."

"You keep telling me that love and sex have very little to do with each other, and yet you seem to associate one with the other, the way you jump between them without a segue. The lifestyle of a whore must make for very interesting psychological testing."

"Don't judge me," she said sharply. "You don't know what it's like to be me. One can never know what it's like to live life in another's body. Even you, with your massive brain," she added with derision, crossing her legs again.

"I don't particularly care what it's like inside your body," he said with an impassive face. "I'm more interested in someone's mind. The motives behind someone's actions are infinitely more complex than chemical signals and hormones. The Neanderthals had chemical signals and hormones. I enjoy those who have evolved past relying strictly on those things."

"And I bet you don't find many," she snapped. "It must be lonely for you and your sterile, clinical outlook—"

"Oh, stop it," Sherlock chided with a scowl. "Yes, I'm bored, constantly; I invent things to do; I travel halfway across the world just to see if I can rescue an impossible woman; I have conversations with people and find out later that I was conducting the discussion in my own mind and should've realized it because no one would've been able to keep up with my train of thought the way they had. I'll ask John a question only to find out that he hasn't been in the room for the past half hour. I'm too intelligent to enjoy anyone's company but my own. And I've learned to live with that." He glared in her direction. "_I_ don't know what it's like to be _you_? _You_ don't know what it's like to be _me_!"

Irene said nothing, but her look of surprise at his confession and sadness at its contents made him regret speaking. He rolled his eyes. "Don't pity me. I despise when people pity me, and I can't fathom why they do it in the first place. I'm more intelligent than they are; if any pitying is to happen_ I_ should be pitying _them_." Sherlock's eyes roamed the room as if trying to find something else to do, some way to multitask while having this conversation. He stood and paced over to the tall, narrow table and leaned back against it, crossing his arms. "Like I said, I've learned to live with it. If I could show you what it's like inside my head you wouldn't pity me."

"What is it like?" Irene asked, her voice softer this time.

Sherlock looked at Irene for a long moment. "It's not…painful. People seem to think I _suffer_ from something. I don't suffer. I can't explain to you the thoughts racing through my brain or the speed with which they do, but just know that it doesn't hurt me."

"What I do doesn't hurt me, either," Irene said with a coy smile. "Unless, of course, that's part of the game."

"Why do you do what you do? Don't answer that." Sherlock paused before continuing, "_How_ do you do what do you do? What is it that made you so successful? You're not the most beautiful of women, and you're clever, but not enough to keep from getting caught and almost beheaded tonight. What is it that you _do_?"

Irene sighed thoughtfully, wondering where to start. She began to pace the small room, crossing back and forth past Sherlock, still leaning against the narrow table along one wall. "Everyone has a part of themselves they want played with, and my goal is to…" She searched for the right word. "Exploit it, in a manner of speaking. For some people it's their heart. Not in your case," she added, throwing him a quick, almost disapproving glance. As she reached the wall, she spun and began her short trek back across the space again. "One might think you'd be in my second category: those who want me to play with their mind. But you've got a more active brain than _everyone else_ in the entire _world_, so why would you want me to attempt a seduction of your mind when you're clearly able to obtain more pleasure with mental masturbation? So you don't want me in your heart or in your head, so that just leaves me..." Irene stopped pacing directly in front of where Sherlock rested against the narrow table and wall behind. "In your arms. Under your skin." She turned to face him and leaned forward, bracing her hands on the table on either side of Sherlock's hips. "I've never come across someone so desperate for physical contact but completely devoid of previous experience. You want me. Every part of you is screaming at you to uncross your arms and take me this instant, and yet you have no way of knowing what to expect, and you've no basis for comparison of what happens next."

Sherlock hadn't moved during Irene's pacing other than to follow her progress across the room with his eyes. Now that she had come to a stop and was effectively pinning him to his chosen position, he noticed with chagrin that his breathing had gradually become much faster and deeper than he would've liked it, and Irene was clever enough to have already picked up on it. "You're so sure I've not—"

"Have you?"

"No."

Irene smiled. "Just because I'm not as clever as you are does not mean I'm stupid."

Sherlock lifted his chin slightly and moved his gaze across the room to the opposite wall as if trying to ignore the proximity of the woman in front of him. "So I'm a physical seduction? You don't think that's an over-simplification?"

Irene didn't move, and kept her gaze on Sherlock's face. "Oh, undoubtedly. Would you like me to go into more detail? We certainly have enough time on our hands tonight. How long will we be here? Hours?" With a quick movement, she grabbed Sherlock's chin and brought his gaze back to hers. "Or would you prefer that I demonstrate?"

Sherlock rolled his head away from her grasp and slipped sideways, moving toward the door. He stopped just short of it and made no move for the handle, his hands stuffed in his pockets, acutely aware of his inability to leave.

"Trapped." Irene smiled again, moving to the single, low chair in the room and sitting gracefully. "Like a rat."

"They say everything looks like a nail when the only tool you have is a hammer," Sherlock said after a moment, still facing the door.

"Who might we be talking about nailing?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly, but kept his back to Irene. "We're trapped, as you say, in a small space for an indeterminate amount of time, and to pass the time your suggestion is sex. You have a very limited tool box indeed."

"You shouldn't judge a woman's box before you've thoroughly inspected it, Mr. Holmes," Irene replied with a smile, "and in all honesty, while sex with _me_ would be physical for _you_, sex with _you_ would be cerebral for _me_. So at second glance your metaphor is a bit more complicated than just hammers and nails."

Sherlock gave an irritated snort, but didn't reply, and once again the room fell quiet.

XxX

_Thanks for reading! Please review! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I know this chapter is a short one, but I just needed a little additional inner-Sherlock-monologue before we get to the next chapter. Which I'm still working on, but shouldn't be more than a few days from completion. And reviewing makes me write faster. ;)_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and associated characters and scenarios are not mine in any way, shape, or form._

**CHAPTER 4  
**

Sherlock had always assumed that affection and desire for another person would weigh him down, as if the act of letting someone else into your heart could somehow make it heavier. Burdened with the weight of his thoughts and constant need to be learning, completing a task, or solving a puzzle, he figured he already had enough to carry, and it was therefore prudent to avoid personal attachments.

Since locking himself in this damnable room with The damnable Woman Sherlock had become increasingly uncomfortable. He couldn't stand still any longer, staring at the door, and he began pacing, taking five steps, turning, and taking another five to arrive back where he'd started before repeating the entire process again. And again. And _again_.

He was loathe to admit she had an effect on him. Physical attraction was for people who thought with their bodies and not their minds. It turned otherwise intelligent people into illogical buffoons, and Sherlock swore he'd be damned before that happened to him.

He should have known better than to arrange for this space as their safe house until morning. It was too small. There was no escaping her. For Christ's sake, he couldn't manage to push her out of his thoughts. This was worse than boredom. His heart pounded in his chest and uneasiness rolled over him in waves.

Was this what physical desire did to a person? He couldn't think straight, he didn't want to talk to her, he didn't even want to look at her. He felt like his intellect was drowning slowly, his desire for The Woman wrapping around his ankles and dragging him down into an unacceptable mental state the speed of molasses. He hated things that defied explanation, and while he had a firm grasp on the chemistry of attraction, he had never experienced it like this, and he did _not_ appreciate its affects on him.

How could the presence of another person make one feel so uncomfortable? Sherlock wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He paused in his pacing, closed his eyes, and held his breath, his hands raised in front of his lips as if he were praying. The Woman made no noise, he could not see her, and he was physically as far away as he could manage in this space.

And yet he could swear he _felt_ her. He was acutely aware of her, without any of his five senses registering her presence.

With a ragged exhale he opened his eyes and began pacing again.

XxX

_Thanks for reading! Please review!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Reread the last chapter if it's been a few days-I overlap a bit, going from his perspective to a more objective point of view. His brain could be boiling, and you'd never know from the outside. :)_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and associated characters and scenarios are not mine in any way, shape, or form._

**CHAPTER 5**

Irene watched as Sherlock paced the room. After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped and clasped his hands in front of his mouth and closed his eyes, as if deep in thought. A brief moment later he dropped his hands and blew out the breath he'd been holding. He paced the room twice more, and suddenly spun, walked to the nearest wall, and sat with his back against it, cross legged on the floor.

"You're looking anxious, Sherlock," Irene observed from her position in the chair.

"I'm bored, and I forgot to bring my Sudoku," he replied sarcastically, his eyes closed. He placed his hands lightly on his knees and began taking slow, even breaths.

"Meditation?" Irene asked.

"Yes. It works better if you _don't_ talk."

"Mmm. You know what works wonders for anxiety?"

"You're still speaking," he pointed out, his voice deadpan.

"It's times like these I need a release. Something to take the edge off. Something like _you_."

Irene pushed forward and began to crawl slowly in Sherlock's direction. He opened one eye briefly to confirm her movement before closing it again.

"Maybe you should try meditating, too. It's _quite_ soothing."

"You're intrigued by me. You wouldn't be here otherwise. Something about me _stuck_ with you, and now I'm all you can think about." Irene arrived in front of Sherlock, remaining on all fours, her face level with his.

"Please refrain from talking," Sherlock requested, a slight edge to his voice that almost sounded like a plea.

"You know…you don't have to give up to let go. I can give you exactly what you want right now," Irene breathed, her voice intense. "A battle cry. A symphony." She paused before adding, "You'll tear yourself to pieces if you keep fighting this need."

"Stop saying that," Sherlock growled, his eyes opening to meet hers. "How can I need something when I don't… It's not something I…" His voice trailed off, but he didn't look away.

Her face was inches from his, but when she slowly leaned forward to close the gap between them, Sherlock's face pulled into a frustrated cringe as if he were fighting an internal battle, and he turned away, Irene stopping just short of his cheek. His hands scratched at the fabric of his pants, balling into fists.

"This isn't weakness," Irene whispered, holding her position. "You're not Sampson, I'm not Delilah, and _what are you waiting for_?"

Neither of them moved for several long seconds. Finally, Irene sighed and pushed back, standing and walking away.

Sherlock pushed off the floor a second after her and caught her arm, spinning her to face him before driving her backwards into the table. With one swift motion he had lifted her to sit on the narrow surface in front of him.

She lifted her arms around his neck, her fingers lacing a crown through his hair. His eyes closed and she leaned in to breathe into his ear, "If your body matches the intensity of your eyes, _this_ is going to be fun."

"'This' doesn't solve anything. 'This' doesn't answer any questions. 'This' doesn't improve either of us," Sherlock said.

Irene took one of Sherlock's hands and wound it around her waist, urging him to pull her flush against him. "Does this feel good?"

"Yes," he breathed.

"Then it's an improvement on your earlier pacing, and 'this' doesn't have to be any more useful than that."

His eyes still shut, Sherlock felt the brush of fabric and the loss of the woman's proximity as she rid herself of her remaining clothes.

"Let's raise the stakes, shall we?" she purred, unbuttoning his shirt quickly and pushing it back off his shoulders before closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the wall.

As the fabric hit the floor, Sherlock stepped back and left The Woman sitting on the narrow table against the wall.

Her head snapped back up. "Now, Sherlock, _really_," she said, exasperated, her eyes opening to find him having retreated several steps away from her. She hopped down off the table and started toward him again, but stopped when he raised a hand sharply.

"You and I…we'd be unhappy."

"I don't want your future, and I don't need your past. You can be with me in this moment and not owe me anything else. I'm not looking for a husband, and even if I was…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes gave a hint of a smile. "…you'd be _terribly_ unsuitable as one."

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he turned to pace a few steps away from her again, his hands wiping over his face as if he could exorcise the logical and linear voices in his head with a harsh pass of his palms.

"You need to turn that off," she said firmly as if she could see the tumult of thoughts he was wrestling with. "Don't over-think it, Sherlock. Silence the devils in your head that are keeping you from this; they'll be waiting for you when you return home. I was dead when I woke up this morning, and I might be dead by the time the next day is done, so quit being such a gentleman and realize that this resistance is coming from a strength you can't sustain, and I'm not resistible for long. I've demanded this from more principled men than you and _won_."

"And here I am without my rape whistle," he sneered and turned his head to look at her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Knew I forgot to pack something."

"You're impossible!" she said, her voice raised.

"I don't respond well to threats!" he roared back.

"What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?" she demanded earnestly, looking frustrated. "I don't know!"

Without replying, he took two strides in her direction and pushed her back against the table, kissing her for what he realized was the first time. Her hands immediately went to his waist and had his belt and pants undone before Sherlock clocked the action. Breathing heavily, and trying not to think too clinically about the mechanics of it all, he pushed forward with a groan that he did his best to muffle, breaking the kiss and pressing his face into her neck.

"So this is what you do?" he ground out, his eyes closed.

"Yes." Her reply was simple and breathy, one hand continuing to brace herself on the narrow table, the other wrapped lightly around the side of his neck.

"Is it like this? With your other clients?" he asked in a low voice, his head still buried in her neck as he moved.

"No."

"No for you—" Sherlock tried to concentrate, "—or no for them?"

"Which one were you asking about?"

Sherlock didn't reply. Damn the games men and women play. He gave a harsh exhale and slammed the heel of one hand against the wall beside Irene with a dull thud.

Irene continued, arching into him. "No, it isn't like this for them. It will never be like this again for you, either, no matter if it's with someone else or with me. You'll never be chased into a room like this, your adrenaline will never be rushing through you like it is tonight."

"Stop," Sherlock exhaled. She wouldn't stop talking. Trying to explain things to him. To _him_. The man who never needed anything explained. And she was avoiding the damn question. He wanted to know if this was really her or if this was an act, performing like she did with the others. Was she trying to explain the fundamentals of this to him because she thought that was the role he wanted her to play?

"-the adrenaline you can attribute to the threat of being found, from your earlier physical fight, from our ongoing verbal sparring match over the last few hours, and while I am_ very_ good at what I do, and you _would_ enjoy it, I could never recreate this. You're responding in a singular way that is not reproducible, and—"

Sherlock's flat hand on the wall balled into a fist and pounded the plaster, once, to Irene's left, and he froze, pressed against her, his breathing ragged. When she turned her head to look at him, she found he had lifted his face from her neck and was staring into her eyes with an angry, desperate expression. "Stop talking," he demanded.

"Why Mr. Holmes, you said you weren't a purely physical seduction," she purred at him. "I figured you'd like a dash of word play and scientific explanation to go with this feral conquest," she said, gesturing between them. She paused, looking at him with quizzical amusement. Studying The Woman's face, Sherlock was pained to note her expression was triumphant, and yet distinctly objective, as if she were observing the outcome of months of research. And he couldn't find a single accepted sign of arousal.

She had said earlier that sex with her would be physical for him, but cerebral for her. He was her experiment tonight: she wanted to see how a primarily mental man dealt with sexual physicality. That was likely her fascination with him all along. Her physiological responses that Sherlock took for attraction had been 'fascination', yes, but nothing close to physical desire. He'd let himself feel attraction for The Woman, let his mind be distracted, let his senses concentrate on a singular need, and he'd missed all the clues. He'd been played by her. _Again. _He was research. _Trapped_, she had said, _like a rat_. A lab rat.

Her different approaches flashed through his mind.

Meeting him for the first time, naked.

Reappearing, vulnerable and exhausted in his bed.

Overt offerings of sex: "I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

Romantic whisperings by the fire.

Scoffing at him and ridiculing his feelings for her.

Begging for forgiveness and mercy.

Physical proximity tonight, challenging him.

She'd watched how he reacted each time.

"Not at this moment, no." Sherlock turned his head away as his eyes slipped from hers and he began moving again. "I don't want an explanation right now."

XxX

_Thanks for reading! Please review! _

_P.S. Sorry about the coitus chapteris interruptus. The next chapter has a different tone and I wanted it to be separate. This actually seems to be the best place to take a break! Oh, and the next chapter will likely be the final one. _

_P.P.S. I realize that up until this point I've split the chapters, the first and third being told from a more objective observer's point of view. The second and fourth were more personal, coming more from Sherlock's internal monologue (which is why she is "the woman" or "Irene" in Chapters 1 and 3, and she's "The Woman" in Chapters 2 and 4). I deliberately blurred the line in this chapter, starting more objective, and trying to melt into a more subjective Sherlock experience as things progressed. So yes, just in case you noticed, it was on purpose. :)_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed past chapters, and for new people just reading this now that it's clicked over to "finished": please, please, please review! I also added an additional author's note at the end of this final chapter with some info I didn't want coloring your reading experience before you got to the end, but I'd love everyone's opinions once you're done!_

_(Also: If you need to reread the end of the last chapter as a refresher on how they got to this point, physically speaking, go do that.)_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock and associated characters and scenarios are not mine in any way, shape, or form._

**CHAPTER 6**

They passed the next few minutes in relative silence, and Sherlock finished without a sound other than his ragged breathing, his face buried in Irene's neck once more. Panting, he released the handful of hair he had twisted through his fingers at the back of her head, and slowly moved his palm to the front of her throat, thumb and fingers resting lightly on opposite sides of her neck. He didn't adjust his position, but merely turned his head from its place on her shoulder to stare intently at his hand while his breathing slowed. His expression was preoccupied, as if his mind was somewhere else entirely. Irene held perfectly still, remaining perched on the table, her legs folded around his waist. Sherlock finally straightened, and after another moment his fingers moved, a whisper of movement against the soft skin below her ear. In any other situation it would have been deemed a caress. Sherlock lowered his hand to the table surface.

Without meeting her eyes he moved away from her. He dressed and returned to his earlier post, seated on the floor near the door. From the corner of his eyes he saw the general movement of Irene sliding off the table and returning to her chair. Sherlock looked up in time to see her sit down and arrange herself in much the same position she'd assumed the day they first met. Still naked, but giving nothing away.

"Sherlock…?" she asked, her tone reminding him of a mother accusing her son of not being honest with her.

He flicked his eyes from her body to her face for a moment before looking down to check his watch. "You should get dressed," he said. "You'll be leaving shortly."

Irene's brow creased. "And going where?" she demanded.

"I _really_ don't care," Sherlock said slowly, drawing out each word while he studied the water-stained wall.

"But you—" Irene gestured to the room vaguely. "This is awfully cold, Sherlock. What was the point of last night's heroics, then?" Irene got to her feet. "You're putting me right back in the same position I was in twelve hours ago!"

Sherlock stood quickly, stooped to swipe Irene's clothing from the floor and flung the pile of black fabric at her unceremoniously.

"Look at you. You can't even look me in the eye," Irene said. "You know that throwing me out of this room is just a continued death sentence!"

"Maybe you should try weeping again." Sherlock moved toward her, his hands in his pockets. "I might have a different reaction this time. Go on," he said, leaning in close so his breath was hot on her face, his voice hard and quiet. "Cry for me."

"Don't do this," the woman whispered. Sherlock's expression wavered, and he opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He backed away from Irene.

"Get dressed," he said again, softer. "Running from the building to the car naked will undoubtedly draw unwanted attention to you."

Irene frowned. "The car?"

"Yes. I've arranged transport for you, there are several passports and visas in the vehicle—take your pick—whichever alias you think is most suitable."

"You made arrangements for me?"

Sherlock looked away, and Irene took the opportunity to redress.

"How long do you suppose I'll last this time?" she asked. "And will you come to my rescue when I need it? Or shall I be my own savior when the world comes for me again?"

"There won't _be_ a next time, because I have taken great pains to ensure your enemies as well as your admirers will believe you died last night."

"And old solution."

"It's most appropriate and gives you your best chance at—" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence.

"At what?" Irene prompted. "Survival? A life?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I promise to behave this time. I'll leave this game to other girls to play." Irene paused before continuing. "I was told you refer to me as The Woman," she said, "but you know I could never be _your_ Woman. Completely aside from the fact that you're the kind of man who gets bored with _every one_ of his toys sooner rather than later, you don't agree with the way I conduct myself and you're not comfortable with any kind of sexuality. While I don't feel any personal shame over how I have lived my life, I also don't enjoy spending time primarily with those who find me distasteful. Frankly, it's tiresome. Your constant attempts at condescension would be grating." She shrugged and looked away before continuing. "I could never spend my life with a man like you."

"It's not condescension when you're legitimately superior to those with whom you're speaking. And I haven't asked for anything else from you—at this point I'm quite sure _I_ couldn't spend my life with _you_, either." Sherlock walked to the table and leaned against it, his arms crossed.

"Sounds like you've considered the possibility before?"

"There are lots of possibilities in life and I routinely consider most of them; part of the constant mental math of a genius. Don't be too flattered. I've also considered killing you." He flicked his eyes away from an insignificant crack on the wall and met Irene's gaze. "Like I said, lots of possibilities."

Irene sighed, walked to where Sherlock sat, and moved to kiss his cheek. He rolled his face away from hers without moving from his perch against the narrow table, his expression unchanged.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," she said quietly. "Man wasn't built to turn down an apple when one is offered by a woman like me." She placed a palm on Sherlock's cheek. "Thank you. I know what you think of me."

"When it comes to the inner workings of my mind, I'm fairly certain you only know what I want you to."

"Oh you poor man. I know _everything_ you don't want me to. You don't love me," she whispered into his ear, "And you _always_ will."

Irene pulled out her phone from within the folds of her burka and started toward the door. Halfway there Sherlock's voice stopped her.

"Leave your phone."

"Why? There's nothing on this one," she said, holding it in front of her and scrolling down the screen.

"I need personal pieces from you to adequately fake your death. Unless you would like the world to know that you remain at large?"

"Surely you have more clever ways to sell this scenario than denying me my phone? How do you expect me to get out of Pakistan on my own without a mode of communication?"

"You're smart, you'll find a way. And you have the reputation of being _quite_ attached to your mobile; this will be relatively convincing to most people once I add it to a corpse." His gaze seemed to be fixed on the chair she had briefly claimed as hers overnight, though his eyes were unfocussed. He extended his hand toward her, palm up, waiting to accept the phone.

She paused, watching him, the requested object still cradled in one hand.

"Please," he said, still not looking at her as he made a small gesture with his outstretched hand, reinforcing his request.

She walked to him and placed the device in his hand, pausing before she turned away again. She brushed a lock of his hair back, only to have it return down over his forehead as soon as she dropped her hand. His eyes closed and he breathed out a soft sigh.

There was a rustle of fabric, the sound of the bolts and door opening, and she was gone.

XxX

_A/N: Additional info about the story, just because I'm curious to see how many people found these while reading. I built this story from one-liners and the general tone of an angsty playlist I was listening to in my car about two weeks ago. As each song would come on I'd hear a particular line and think, "Sherlock would think that way," or "Irene would say that to try to get a rise out of Sherlock." By the time my hour commute was over I was totally inspired and immediately sat down to start listing the lyrics that I had responded to. _

_Now, I generally dislike songfics. Most of them are way too heavy-handed, trying to cram existing characters into the confines of the events of a song, or else it's just a song that means something to the author, but not to the rest of us, and so reprinting lyrics throughout the story doesn't add anything to the reader's experience. And it's always just. one. song. They're problematic._

_Therefore, I did not identify this as a songfic, and I didn't want to tell you about the songs before you read it in case it ruined the flow of the story because you were looking for references. Some lines were sampled verbatim (but very few), some lyrics were rephrased, some I just like the feeling behind them, and sometimes I a single word inspired me to build a paragraph around it. _

_Please let me know if you recognized any of these songs while reading, and tell me if it was too obvious or annoying if you did. Thank you!_

_The Drumming Song, Florence + The Machine_

_Fade Into You, Nashville Soundtrack_

_Rev 22 20, Puscifer_

_I Remember, Deadmau5 and Kaskade_

_Gabriel, Joe Goddard ft. Valentina_

_Bedroom Hymn, Florence + The Machine_

_Supermassive Black Hole, Muse_

_Cry Me A River, Justin Timberlake_

_Leave My Body, Florence + The Machine_

_Your Woman, White Town_

_Glory Box, Portishead_

_Howling For You, The Black Keys_

_Creep, Radiohead_

_Heavy In Your Arms, Florence + The Machine_

_Turning Tables, Adele_

_Poison and Wine, The Civil Wars_

_If I Didn't Know Better, The Civil Wars_

_Paralyzer, Finger Eleven_

_No One Will Ever Love You, Nashville Soundtrack_

_Set Fire To The Rain, Adele_

_Tighten Up, The Black Keys_

_Use Somebody, Kings Of Leon_

_Running Up That Hill, Track and Field_

_Rolling In The Deep, Adele_

_What The Water Gave Me, Florence + The Machine_

_Seven Devils, Florence + The Machine_


End file.
